


I think it's called "Clara"

by WeepingintheTARDIS



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Music, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Twelve is lost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 17:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30059250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeepingintheTARDIS/pseuds/WeepingintheTARDIS
Summary: The last chord crackled through the cheap speakers in the small cafe. As the sound died out, the man who had been playing the guitar jumped off the table. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them safely away in his jacket before setting his guitar aside. Then his movements froze except for the grey eyes that darted around.'No applause then?' He frowned. 'That's new.'The audience stayed quiet, staring at the grey haired man in a mixture of disbelief and despair. Some of the women had even taken out their handkerchiefs and were dabbing their eyes with the white cotton.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor & Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Kudos: 4





	I think it's called "Clara"

It was December. Snow had not yet covered the streets of the little town, but the temperature had decreased/dropped below zero and the northern wind sent chills through the crowd that was exiting the theatre.

The women, wearing evening dresses that exposed their calves above the high cut boots and jackets that did not protect them against the cold, quickly bid their farewells and stayed as close as possible to their husbands, hoping they would hurry and take them home where it was warm. One man, that had until recently been part of this crowd, had gone to the play unaccompanied and was glad that he could sneak off without feeling guilty later not having said goodbye. He knew he would be regretting this evening anyway since he had kind of promised to take his friend to see this play, which in the end he hadn't. When she would find out he had gone on his own she was probably going to be so mad at him she would ignore him for days. Again. Well, at least he had an excuse. They had arrived here together a few days ago and something had been bothering him ever since. He just couldn't lay his finger on what exactly it was. Every time he thought of the evening of the play, a feel of more than excitement washed over him.

It wasn't a particularly bad omen, but intuitively he just knew something was going to happen. That's why he decided to go on his own. That's why he wouldn't go home just yet. There was something he needed to do, he just didn't know what. He turned up his collar against the wind, put his hands in his pockets and started to walk in no particular direction.

He was only two blocks away from the theatre when he found himself at a small square. A fountain with ice covering the water in the basin marked the exact middle. The fountain itself was a beautiful piece of art; a statue of a young woman standing on tiptoes and reaching out for something, while around her four men knelt, facing the four streets. He walked around the basin once, admiring the skill of the artist, then another time now regarding his surroundings.

The streets, that were excessively decorated with Christmas ornaments, were almost empty. Of course, that was no surprise at this time of the night, but the silence bothered him.

He chose the street the girls arm was pointing at. Behind the windows of the small pubs and cafes people were talking and laughing, but he passed them almost without taking notice. He had heard something that begged his full attention. Music. The source of it was where he needed to be. He was sure of it.

.

.

.

The last chord crackled through the cheap speakers in the small cafe. As the sound died out, the man who had been playing the guitar jumped off the table. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them safely away in his jacket before setting his guitar aside. Then his movements froze except for the grey eyes that darted around.

'No applause then?' He frowned. 'That's new.'

The audience stayed quiet, staring at the grey haired man in a mixture of disbelief and despair. Some of the women had even taken out their handkerchiefs and were dabbing their eyes with the white cotton.

'Um...' The Doctor reached into his pockets, retrieving a bundle of handwritten cards and started flipping through them. 'Nothing to do with people dying.' He mumbled. ' I'm not comparing humans to other species.'

The door opened and a man stepped in, curiously taking in the situation. A strong, cold stream of air accompanied the newcomer and yanked some cards from the Doctor's hands. The man picked one up and grinned as he read it.

'I'm sorry for the loss of your pet?'

'It's for when I'm being rude.' The Doctor took a step towards him, snatching the card from his hands. 'Thanks for picking that one up for me.'

He shot the man an irritated glare and collected the rest of the fallen cards from

the floor before the nosy stranger could read another one.

'I think the words you are looking for are

"was it really that bad?" '

'Was it?'

The stranger chuckled. 'Man, everyone passing by on the street stopped to listen to you.'

'Did they?' He walked over to the door and saw that indeed a small crowd had formed there.

'It was wonderful.' One of the women added.

'What is that song called?' asked another.

The Doctor pocketed his cards and picked up his guitar, suddenly looking sad. 'I believe it's called “Clara”.'

**Author's Note:**

> Any idea who the stranger is?
> 
> If you wanna talk, shoot me a message on tumblr (delicatingeyebrows.tumblr.com)!


End file.
